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“The goodwill gifts didn’t stop the soldiers from shooting him down in cold blood, of course,” Block added dryly.
Coldmoon was starting to like this assistant curator.
Block slid open the deep drawer and edged aside the covering sheet of paper to reveal the items. They were indeed magnificent: the shirt, made of buckskin with a collar of bear claws, was decorated with incredibly intricate, brilliantly dyed quillwork. The headdress was not the big, elaborate kind that hung down the back, but a simple and dignified crown of eagle feathers set into a beaded headband, trimmed with dangling ermine tails.
As Coldmoon stared, he had to wonder again: were any of these possibly copies like the pipe, substituted for the real thing? Such a swap would be unlikely to be discovered, at least for many years, given that the collection was locked away and rarely viewed. He thought of the gorgeous quilled shirt Running had been wearing, made by Twoeagle. That murdered artist was certainly capable of making a copy of Sitting Bull’s shirt. But had he?
“Mr. Block,” he said, “if I wanted to verify these artifacts were genuine, how would I go about doing that?”
“What do you mean?” Block asked. “You think they might be fake? I hardly think that’s possible. They were scrupulously collected and curated.”
“What I mean is, the original articles might haverecentlybeen taken and reproductions left in their place. How would you determine that?”
Block thought for a moment. “In the accession file, there usually is a photograph of the object taken when the museum received it. In the old days, those pictures would be from glass-plate negatives taken with a large view camera—extremely sharp and detailed. I think a visual comparison between the accession photo and the item would reveal if it was real or not. You can’t really duplicate something like that detailed quillwork, or the eagle feathers in that headdress—there would be subtle differences.”
“Could you make that comparison?”
“Um, when?”
“Now.”
Block hesitated. “I’d have to get permission from Dr. Britley.”
Coldmoon looked at him steadily for a moment. Then he tapped the pocket containing his FBI ID. “I’m going to ask you to do thiswithoutinforming Dr. Britley or anyone else. If there’s blowback, I’ll have you covered: I’ll tell them I expressly ordered you to do this and you were naturally required to cooperate with the FBI.”
Block stared, and then after a moment nodded slowly. “But…why do you think these might be counterfeit?”
Coldmoon thought for a moment, wondering if he should take Block into his confidence. The young man seemed intelligent, as well as sympathetic and trustworthy. “We think Dr. Mancow might have been secretly working for a private collector, perhaps someone interested in getting his hands on Sitting Bull’s artifacts. They were working in league to steal items from museums by substituting clever fakes. We think that may be the reason Mancow was murdered.” He took out his card and gave it to Block. “My private cell phone. Call me as soon as you’ve done the comparison.”
“Jesus,” said Block. “That’s brazen. Of course I’ll help you.”
“Thank you.”
On their way out of the museum, Coldmoon checked with Martin Archer in Security and discovered that they did indeed keep a record of all the fingerprint data. When asked why he hadn’t mentioned that earlier, Archer insisted he’d simply forgotten.
Coldmoon mentally filed that excuse under a simple heading:Bullshit.
43
June 7
Wednesday
DR. FERENC WALKED THROUGHthe vaulted reception hall, its display cases packed with bones, gemstones, meteorites, and stuffed animals. It was without a doubt the strangest house he’d ever been in, occupying a big juicy lot right on Riverside Drive overlooking the Hudson—one of the last of the great old mansions along the drive, and no doubt worth a bloody fortune.
He turned toward the library and paused at the open door. Although much of the vast mansion was off-limits to him, he had free access to the guest wing, and there were other rooms in which he was welcome—perhapstoleratedwas a better word—including this one.
The library was a fine room, paneled in dark wood, whose shelves were full of old books bound in calf grain or buckram and stamped in gold—rare volumes in languages both alive and dead, embracing literature, mathematics, philosophy, astrology, and more exotic disciplines. There was often a low fire flickering in the hearth, and the air carried the pleasant scent of leather, smoke, and furniture polish. With a harpsichord in one corner and old-master paintings here and there among the books, the entire room hearkened back to a long-vanished era. Ferenc wished he could have a library of his own like this someday. With a million dollars, maybe he could.
He stepped through the door. Pendergast was not in his usual seat before the fire, and—conscious of a freedom conferred on him by the man’s absence—Ferenc walked over to examine more closely the curious objets d’art displayed within a small glass-fronted shadow box. The whole house was like a museum.
“Dr. Ferenc,” came the cultured voice from behind him. “I hope this evening finds you well.”
It was all Ferenc could do not to whirl around in surprise. He turned, suppressing an unreasonable feeling of guilt. Pendergast had apparently been standing near the harpsichord, but Ferenc could have sworn that corner of the library—the entire room, for that matter—had been empty when he entered.
“I’m fine,” he said. “And I’ve come with good news.”
“I’m all ears.”